The Distant Hours
by Villettess
Summary: Some wounds are out of reach, healing is never easy. A look at dynamics after Matthew is injured.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N. My thanks to floraposte (fromlaughter) and Sam (foooolintherain) for their thoughtful early reviews.  
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**The Distant Hours**_  
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_We shall new shadows make the other way._

There was light sifting through the pale yellow curtain—the fabric beating like tired wings, the pattern he has had to unlearn each time, the image shifting like a hologram. Or was it pressed flowers? But this was not home, and he wondered if it was just blood.

He had been alarmed at the sheet getting stained. Often the sight of the pillow with a smear of pink would make him retch. Earlier, he had requested the nurse to change his sheets and she had said the same thing, that there was nothing wrong, he was imagining things. Doctor's orders, he would have sneered, but it wasn't right, somehow. She would give him a mocking look, roll her eyes, wave her cap in the other direction and say she had other patients to attend to. But then, he had mentioned it to her—Mary—once, and then they had sent clean sheets from Downton. They had the same smell, like air-blue skies, her volunteer's gown. When she was near, adjusting the pillows, her face so close he could pinpoint the birthmark under her eye, he felt it had been. And he stared and waited, even long after she had left. On nights, he would lay against the clean pillow with the faint gold-twined embroidered insignia and he would seek, trying to break the spell.

She was there every day since he arrived, was it two days, four? He couldn't exactly remember, even though there was a clock on the grey wall opposite his bed. When they had brought him to the hospital, he had been asleep, doused on morphine, they said, because of his legs. When he had woken up, it was the brightness, the colorlessness of it all, that struck him with its wrongs, as if he had died, unburied.

But then she had laid a hand on his arm, the warmth of her flesh stabbing him, so he had thrust hers immediately, shoved her away from him so he half-hung out of the bed, a vicious flight. She had pressed on, pushed him back with equal force so he felt her skin-sheathed bones, her fingers digging into him, his fight leaving her with bruises, fire against the pale. Yet she hadn't pulled away. Not even when he tried to tear the sheets, shaking with anger, this madness that roused him from that artificial plain.

"It's all right. It's all right, Matthew," she repeated, the soft-strength of her body and its trappings branding his memory though her voice was foreign, a distant song, or was it a cry?

She hadn't left this side that first day, even though others had visited. Lord Grantham had tried to reassure him that these things happened and he would recover.

"You are home, Matthew. You have a chance, so be thankful." He could have retorted, arguing with something equally pathetic. But he couldn't understand how that was possible, this talk about home.

Sybil, the second nurse on his floor, had gone through the motions, and Mary had watched, her face arrested as he lay measured among the ruins: the counting of his pulse, recording of his temperature, awakening fresh wounds as the dressing came undone. She had sent Sybil away and told her father she would come home later. She wasn't afraid. He wanted to ask, but she just kept, her calm chastening the storm.

He felt it, the pitter-patter against the windowsill, the faint spray of wetness, the stream of answers outside his reach. Safe in those walls, he heard a different sound.

It was the stillness, the silence that filled it. He didn't hear the blind soldier—Tom—coughing consumptively in the screened room next to him. He didn't hear the nurses wheeling food on the old screeching food cart, he didn't smell the half-eaten sick, even what lay underneath. He didn't hear the rain.

It was her, lying on the chair in front. Her eyes were closed but he felt her eyelids fluttering, tormented beneath the shadows. Her dark eyebrows were motionless, secreting those expressions he had seen. He mapped the contours of her face, the uncommon angles puzzling him as they became her. It was like a painting, he could tell. Her lips were closed, as if barred from revealing, even in her sleep. Her dark hair had come loose from the pins that set it, where her head had lain against the hard back of his seat. The sails of her skirt waved gently in that airless room. Her shoes were the same color as that of her bound book, which she had been reading to him and which now lay on her lap, shut tight. It was heavy. He watched her breathing, heard those soft rhythms, not labored, not loud, not peaceful. Then hearing their notes shot something of sadness through him. As his eyes fell on the swell and flow of the collar clasped tightly around her white throat, something rose in his chest, the ache rippling through him, so he felt like he was bleeding afresh, the bandages coming loose. He sucked his breath, almost cut his lip. He wanted it to last, her near frame small, yet formidable, her presence a reminder.

The cruelty gnawed at him, stealing his hours, masking every moment like second skin, like the mummy tape that kept him bound. It was as if he was tethered somewhere in space, in some spider's trap, held hostage by an invisible fate. He couldn't remember sleeping, just that something was being torn away from him by the minute, something he couldn't reach, something so far and yet so near, but incomprehensible. The pillows clogged, the stillness dangerous, a conflagration with the slightest move. It came crushing down, this weight of nothing.

And then she awoke, her eyes looked at him, searchingly, and held his own. She caught him just in time as he reached for the bowl. But it was the wrong kind, another need.

And he didn't know her.

—

"Tell me. Don't hold anything back," she had said and her father had told her what he knew: that Matthew had been disoriented when he was brought in, that he had a fracture and burns in his legs. But she hadn't prepared for what she would see—the violence, the escape, the forced bind. It took all of her to fight and give, to beat against the current when everything crashed, splintered like his memories. Yet she found she was spared. Anna said the blood had stained her dress permanently, the exertion marked like spilt milk, their salt tears etched on her face.

"He hasn't lost all. His cognitive functions are normal." Still, it wasn't that she distrusted Dr. Clarkson; it was that she saw it in Matthew. Then she began to doubt herself. For it was all like a dream, that last time and now she had lost her conspirator, her guide. Now was not the time to confirm. She must go on. So when her father said Lavinia must know, she did the right thing. Whether she had heard or not, whatever it was, she ordered the telegram. "Don't worry" not "All is well." Nothing more, nothing less. It was her father who had phoned Lavinia.

She looked in the mirror, her hair in disarray, his presence in its splits, even the pins that now scratched her neck. Was that a tear near her white collar? She undid the buttons, wondered if that was an insect bite on her chest. She pressed it with her finger, to see if it bled. Was it an infection? How long had it been there? Could she undo it? The mirror was old. She could see doubles. There were no answers.

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_A/N. I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you suspect is going on. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: My thanks to floraposte (fromlaughter) for thoughtfully beta-ing this piece. _

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_Ease is my plague; ease makes thee void._

He had asked but they hadn't heard. He already knew his name, that he was from Manchester, that his father had died the year he left for college. They said his mother was in France doing charity work and hard to track. It didn't mean anything to him; Mother was always helping out with hospitals, ever since he could remember. "Medicine's in my blood, Matthew," she had said, when talking about her father and her brother, "My calling is to help the sick and the needy." She had met his father while working as a nurse.

It was Lord Grantham who had furnished the details: that he was a Captain in the North Riding regiment, had been posted in France, had been wounded during the battle of the Somme. He had flung the sheets and looked, the pins cutting him as he pulled, the fresh-red of delirium marking the spool of gauze.

"I need to know!" He had shouted, when Lord Grantham had stopped him and rung for the male nurses to tie him down. But it was futile. It was too late and his throat was dry. Lord Grantham had waited until he had calmed, when he had finally allowed the covers to rest. He had sat, watching him with the same sad, tired eyes as Mary. When Lord Grantham said he was the heir, that all of Downton would be his, he wanted to laugh. Downton belonging to a madman, a cripple! Little did _he_ know. But he only winced, a stab coursing through him down to his legs that still felt like molten lead, the price of spoils.

"Just get well, Matthew. Don't let this trouble you."

By the time Lord Grantham left, it was already dusk outside. A nurse was nowhere in sight and the walls began to darken, the shadows pressing on him, the forms hewed in smoke, the voices mired. It wasn't that he didn't know how he could be the heir or assume responsibilities. As the minutes elapsed, as the room spun with the unseen, he wondered whether he could ever go back. Dr. Clarkson had assured him he would recover, he could leave. He thought of the sound of the church bells as he rode home after work, knowing it was time, the scones still warm in his father's library, where his sure-past was framed, the glass reflecting his idealism as his mother agreed he could change lives. In his dream he saw her there, air-blue gown out of place, though he missed her in the morning.

So when she told him he would have a visitor, he had expected to hear yet another summons, his fate smothered in old scrolls. He hadn't immediately asked who it was.

"Now?"

"No, tomorrow."

He had been the one to start it, even though he knew there was no stopping the inevitable. She had been sitting, as she normally did, on the chair on his right. He waited for her to pick up the book she was reading but she didn't. Instead, she adjusted her skirt, sweeping it slowly to free it of the crumbs of the cake she had been eating—the one she had brought and shared with him, although most of it lay half-eaten on the table next to her, like his. Outside, the light dimmed as the clouds barred. The clock chimed, past noon. Her face was still bent slightly, but he caught the faint throb of her eyebrows, the echoes of her lips.

"Who is it?"

When she mentioned he was engaged to a woman, he had felt the room suddenly grow large, the air between them heavy, the thrum of the fan overhead drowning out her voice. What he had carefully constructed only the other night, his start, mocked him, his carelessness a farce even in dreams. He felt parched, his body hollow with anger. Why the hesitation? Why this restraint? Why not tell him early on? Why had they led him, especially her? A wave of revulsion passed over him when he remembered collapsing in her arms, trusting her in strange ways, anchored by the strength in her eyes. He saw now that she had been contrary, acting one way when she meant the reverse. He seethed, his flaw robbing him of truth as the Crawleys hid in their legacy of secrets. But even they were no match for Lavinia Swire, his fiancée who had insisted on her place.

He had sent her way.

—

In the light, her red hair scorched. It reminded him of something underground, like midnight's call, a fevered curse. He craned his neck to get a better view, though her reflection obliterated him. From the corner of his eyes, he observed the soft curves of her face. Her clouded green eyes looked a little swollen, and her hand shook when she slipped it into his, her fingers threading his own, her touch stamping him with claims to make up for her delay. Was she afraid?

"I am here, Matthew. And I won't leave you."

Her voice was husky, edged with anguish, her throat exhausted. When she bent over to him and laid her face on his shoulder, he smelled her London cologne, the notes conspicuous like hothouse flowers. It seeped into his clothes, his hair the only armor against the raid. He felt his skin growing cold, the ethers rising, the fury of the fan overhead as it thrashed against the unjust heat of the summer. Then he shifted, the motion displacing his legs so the fracture pulled him back with the pain still-raw amidst the imposing air, its reverberations a distraction. Or was it a clue? The dark-blank was yet unforgiving and the moments remained stolen, but the agony was unmasked.

It must have roused her, for she stepped back, whispering "I am sorry, I am sorry." She pulled a white, gold-lined handkerchief—where had he seen it?— from the black purse that slung over the edge of the chair, and wiped her eyes. That was when he had seen the narrow band on her finger, its cut sharp, its glow a reminder. He had felt the fire from that distance, though he saw the embers buoyed in smoke.

He searched her, half afraid, half hope. She hadn't stopped crying, and her tears had dotted her open rust cotton coat. Inside, he glimpsed a pale pink dress, a slender ribbon tying the cascades of the flowing collar. Tendrils of her red hair, which had been set in swirls when she had arrived, had come loose and framed her temple, concealing the lines he had caught earlier. Her green eyes were larger and her lips were pale on her flushed face. Her freckles were buried but he knew he couldn't remember the pattern, only that it was incomplete. And there was that same note of sadness he couldn't explain, this time accusing, as if it was his fault.

"I would have come earlier but Papa was ill and Lord Grantham said I had better remain with him, that he'd look after you here. Papa is better now and I came as soon as I could. I am here for you. And I won't let you go."

The daylight was persistent, wearing his gratitude. As the sun retaliated against the showers the previous night, he didn't feel indebted, only annoyed at its wake. The workers having escaped for meals, it was unusually quiet outside. But he heard the nurses wheeling food trays, the starved slurps of Tuesday's beef barley soup. It wafted past his screens, collecting in his corner like parachutes. He felt it closing in, his body mined. He gasped, wheezing as his throat was stuffed, the wrongs robbing him of speech, his veins meting in return.

Lavinia panicked, asked him if she should call a nurse, but he only shook his head, pointing to the window. As soon as she opened it, the air had rushed in like an avalanche, melted on his skin, filling the gaps as it freed. He closed his eyes, breathed in. It was on his tongue, he could taste it, air-blue, like her touch.

When he had opened his eyes, it had vanished. The room dimmed and the curtains beat as the wind cooled. He pulled the sheets closer, the spectres hidden, their footprints trailing doubts, her absence palpable. But he must know.

"Tell me."

—

When he saw her entering through the darkened doorway, a figure in white, he at first looked away. There had been letters and dates, promises and goodbyes. Before she left, Lavinia had told him his story and he had watched it unfold in three acts, the curtains closing as she paved his future, his fate steered by her duty, his joy heightened by her sacrifice. Now was not the time for dreams.

And yet, he felt the stillness pervading the length of the room, the hospital sounds muted once again in another's presence. He heard the clicking of her heels, the sway of her gown, the count of her pulse, as if they beat to an olden tune. And then the walls hung with scenes, the stories dusted with print. He was waiting.

It struck him, when he saw that she only looked smaller and younger, and caught the slip in her step, how much he already knew, how much he still needed to know.

"I hope I didn't wake you, Cousin Matthew", Sybil said as she neared, her off-duty white-grey dress muting the anticipation, her dark features shadows of her sister's. She had brought with her a book that Mary had asked her to bring to him. He quickened.

As if reading his mind, Sybil mentioned Mary was in London, "taking care of some things." He wasn't sure what prompted him to ask then and there, or why he hadn't asked before.

"Were your sister and I close?"

Sybil hesitated. He noticed the marks of perspiration on her young face, her eyes darkening like Mary's.

"You were once lovers."

It should have shaken him. It should have brought him crashing, but it did not. It only left him stoned in time, storied in make-believe. The past was painted, but the pattern eluded him. He saw her on the rails, the stairs swirling around her, the centuries weighing her down as the skies opened, gravity hung aloft, the law stayed unbent among a new order of things.

Sybil wouldn't say anything more and he couldn't bring himself to ask. He opened the book of Hardy's poems, thumbing the pages, searching for her voice.

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_A/N: Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think about the turn of events. _


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